The Spectator and the Muses

Acquainted #13 – Type

She was of a different type: one who had the looks covergirl, and the soul of a playboy—a duality that afforded her a contact list the size of a small-town phonebook.

Guys and girls loved her company alike, for she could be at once a reincarnation of Rita Hayworth, flirting with life and its joys, and prancing around in heels with deft professionalism; and at another time, her fancy puffing and expensive sipping would turn her into a version of Bogart with shampoo-commercial hair.

Girls looked up to her, while guys wanted her to be one of them—they sometimes yearned to be like her. Why else would guys talk to her looking her straight in the eye, when they had every reason not to for a guy? Granted, it could have been fear—the type of fear any man feels when she yelled the meanest among the guys when watching a football game.

“Oh my god, are you kidding me? Get the ball!”
Players always seemed to get scared out of her call.

Her cellphone would beep constantly whenever she was with friends, reminding of her connection to other friends. After a read, a giggle, and typing typing typing typing typing typing typing typing typing typing typing typing typing typing typing typing, she would get back to the game, her conversation, her life—until the next beep from another friend from her list.